


Come Quietly

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Handcuffs, M/M, PWP, Restraints, Rimming, Roleplay, The Diogenes Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: While working late at The Diogenes Club, Mycroft finds himself interrupted by a certain detective inspector - who's come to remind him he is not above the law.





	Come Quietly

It was just past nine PM when the sound of footsteps tugged Mycroft from his focus. He lifted his weary eyes from the laptop screen to find his office door opening. An attendant admitted a visitor in silence, nodded, shut the door and left.

It was Greg. He was dressed for work - coat, clean white shirt, entirely serious expression. Before Mycroft could ask, Greg reached a hand for the brass key in the door, twisted it and locked it.

“Can you step away from the laptop please, Mr Holmes?” he said.

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted. “What are you doing?” he asked, with a frown.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes. Shouldn’t have to remind you that I’m law enforcement. Away from the laptop, please - now.”

Without a word, Mycroft eased his chair backwards from the desk. He laid his hands on the arms where Greg could see them.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, regarding Greg with concern.

“It’s over, Mr Holmes. We’ve been looking into you for months. Play dumb if you want, but we both know that laptop has all the evidence Scotland Yard need to put you away.”

Mycroft reviewed his options in silence for a moment.

At last, with a stroke of his tongue across his teeth, he said,

“How unfortunate for me, inspector. I suppose it was fruitful while it lasted.”

Greg gave a snort. “International fraud usually is,” he said. He stepped forwards, shut the laptop with a snap and removed it from the desk, placing it by the door and far out of Mycroft’s reach. “Honestly, Mr Holmes? I expected better of you. Then again, you’ve always seemed to think you’re above the law.”

Mycroft pressed his teeth quietly into the side of his tongue.

“Perhaps I have,” he said. “You’re here to take me into custody, I assume?”

“I am - and you’ve been lucky. If you weren’t Sherlock’s brother, I’d have sent the squad and the flashing blue lights to lead you out the front, in full view of every politician and ambassador in this place. As it happens, I’m here to take you quietly out the back.”

“I see.” Mycroft leant backwards in his chair, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “Forgive me, inspector… you seem to be under the impression I’m prepared to come quietly. I’m not sure if that’s the case.”

“I really wouldn’t be difficult about this if I were you, Mr Holmes…”

“No? That’s probably why you haven’t a lucrative side career in international fraud, inspector. Fortune favours the bold.”

“Yeah, and crime never pays,” Lestrade said, bluntly. “This is happening, Mycroft. Don’t make it worse by resisting arrest. If you’re half as smart as you think you are, you’ll already know much trouble you’re in.”

“Do elaborate,” Mycroft said. “I’m all ears.”

“You’re looking at ten years, if that laptop contains everything we think it does.”

“Ten years? How inconvenient.”

“Don’t be flippant with me, Mr Holmes.” Frowning, Lestrade tugged a pair of handcuffs from inside his coat; they rattled softly in the quiet. “It’s not too late to haul you out the front.”

“Mm. Something I’d rather avoid.” Mycroft lifted his chin, eyeing the handcuffs with a healthy mix of interest and concern. “In fact, inspector, if it’s all the same to you… I’d rather dispense with the prison sentence too.”

Lestrade snorted as he crossed the office, clicking open the cuffs.

“I bet you would,” he muttered. “It’s a shame the law is the law.”

“Might we come to some arrangement?”

“You want to add trying to bribe a police officer to your sentence? Fine. That’s another four weeks. But I suppose on top of ten years, it won’t really matter.”

As Lestrade approached his chair, ready with the cuffs, Mycroft pressed back into its depths and threw caution to the wind.

“Perhaps a  _non-monetary_  arrangement, inspector,” he said. “I am - rather determined to avoid jail.”

He caught Lestrade’s brief pause; his own pulse rate quickened.

“At all and any cost,” he added, sleekly.

The dark brown eyes flickered into his own, the cuffs open and ready. Mycroft held Lestrade’s decadently serious gaze, his breath deepening.

“I note that you've… come alone,” he went on, watching the man’s face. “Some part of you clearly wished to have parlance with me. You believed there was something to be  _gained_  from you and I speaking alone. There was some opportunity you wished to present to me, perhaps. I doubt it was for me to take flight out of the window. Your offer to smuggle me out of the back and preserve my reputation is very kind, but I… can’t help but wonder if we might negotiate something rather more beneficial to us  _both_.”

Lestrade said nothing still, regarding him with that stern, unsmiling expression. Mycroft found his insides twisting a little at the severity of it.

“It… was only international fraud,” he tried.

One eyebrow raised. “I’m the law, Mycroft,” he murmured, his voice gravelled and low.

Mycroft’s stomach curled slightly. “I have always maintained the deepest possible respect for officers of Her Majesty’s Constabulary,” he said. “Their discretion. Their ability to perceive the wider picture.”

“What ‘wider picture’ am I meant to be perceiving?” Lestrade asked, one eyebrow lifting.

The rumble of his voice was making it rather hard to concentrate. Aware he was skirting dangerously close to pleading, Mycroft wet his lips with a flick of his tongue.

“That perhaps you might be lenient with me,” he said. “I am a petty white-collar fraudster. My brother would be distressed and endangered by my incarceration. I have not harmed anyone.”

“And?” Lestrade said, unmoved.

“And,” Mycroft added, thinking quickly, “you and I might be…  _useful_ to one another. Professionally. I have rather a lot of contacts, inspector - rather a lot of resources. I can open doors for you, Lestrade.”

Greg smiled humourlessly, looked away and gave a huff. He was not yet proceeding with the cuffs, Mycroft noted.

“You think I’m here to try and cadge a favour?” the inspector said. “A promotion? Get my neighbour sent down for speeding? I don’t work that way, Mycroft. Don’t insult my honour.”

Mycroft swallowed, still pressed into the back of his chair. “Something else, then. Some other arrangement.”

He met Lestrade’s eyes. Lestrade looked back at him - those deep, liquid-brown depths, full of everything, giving nothing away. Mycroft breathed in slowly. He held the words in his mouth for a moment.

“Perhaps a more personal arrangement,” he said, carefully.

Lestrade did not react; he did not speak.

“I am a criminal, inspector,” Mycroft confessed. He found his throat rather tight. “Inexcusably.  _Irredeemably_. But I’m not blind to the appeal of the law… and I’m very keen to uphold it wherever I can.”

The open cuffs in Lestrade’s hands gleamed in the light. He considered Mycroft for a moment, his expression guarded.

“Enough with the serpent tongue,” he said at last, his voice low. “Say what you’ve got to say, Holmes - or let’s go.”

Mycroft felt a shiver course across the nape of his neck. He suppressed it from his face, slowly lifted his chin, and said,

“Perhaps my…  _serpent tongue_  might convince you towards leniency in some other way, inspector…”

Lestrade’s eyes burned into his. Mycroft held his breath, and held his gaze.

“Don’t commit me to prison, Lestrade,” he murmured - with a single, quiet note of a plea. “Let me… express to you the depth of my remorse. Perhaps you’ll rethink the matter.”

Lestrade did not move.

Watching his face closely, Mycroft eased himself forwards in the chair.

Their eyes remained locked as Mycroft lowered to his knees on the ottoman rug. He gazed upwards from Lestrade’s feet, reaching to lay his hands on the stomach beneath the clean white shirt - the first questioning touch. Lestrade’s skin was warm beneath the cotton, his stomach firm and flat. His face flickered slightly at the contact.

He gave a small, silent nod.

Mycroft breathed out. He reached for the clasp of the inspector’s trousers.

As he undid the catch he leant forwards, brushing his nose and mouth gently across Lestrade’s fly - nuzzling at the thickening bulge beneath it. Lestrade breathed in, placing a hand on the desk beside them to steady himself. Mycroft found his fingers slipping a little on the clasp, robbed of their dexterity by the feel of the hardening cock now straining for his mouth against the fabric. Lestrade was big; it made Mycroft’s own prick stir and stiffen in response. As he got the catch open at last and eased down the zipper, he found his mouth wet and his throat dry. He nosed at the thickness through the black cotton of Lestrade’s boxer shorts, earning himself a single breathed groan, and he brushed the hardness with his lips. He stroked Lestrade’s heavy cock through the fabric with his breath, teasing a little with the proximity of his open mouth. A hand came to rest on the back of his head - curling there, a little restless - encouraging him - gentle fingers wound into his hair. Mycroft did not attempt to hide his shudder.

As he coaxed down the man’s boxers, and Lestrade’s prick bobbed free towards his mouth, desire surged wildly through Mycroft, hot and thick and urgent - desire in his tongue, desire in his throat, desire in his stomach and down between his thighs where he knelt in obedience on the rug, desire thrumming in his own eager and ignored cock. He wrapped Lestrade’s prick slowly in one hand. His eyes flickered out of focus at the size of it. He liked doing this. He always had. He liked the feeling of a lover fucking his mouth, and he flattered himself that he was good at it - something Inspector Lestrade was about to enjoy in great detail. Mycroft wet his lips, drew a breath, and wasted no more time.

As Lestrade’s thickness pushed into his mouth, stretching his lips and sliding deeply back towards his throat, Lestrade gave a heady shudder and a hoarse groan. Mycroft’s heart seared with it. Lestrade’s fingers twitched in his hair as he swallowed the man to the root, nuzzling into his pubic hair. He felt  _satisfying_  to suck, Mycroft thought - big enough to fill Mycroft’s mouth; not so big as to make it clumsy. He sighed with contentment around his mouthful, relaxed his throat and reached around to cup Lestrade’s arse through his loosened trousers, eager, wanting the man to rock and enjoy him and have him - to fuck his mouth - to  _use_  him, just a little. Lestrade swore softly and pulled Mycroft tighter to his groin, shivering.

For some time, Lestrade’s tight moans and the wetness of Mycroft’s mouth were the only sounds in the silent office. 

Mycroft found himself forgetting the room around them - the desk, the door, the rug beneath his knees. There was only the heavy prick sliding thickly in and out of his mouth, and the possessive hand on the back of his head. He could feel his own cock straining desperately against the seam of his trousers. He wanted to reach down and free himself. He wanted  _touch_.

But more than that, he wanted Lestrade to come down his throat - to tell him he’d done well, but he was still a terrible criminal and he was going the fuck to prison.

It was why it took a few moments to notice the urgent gripping at his shoulders.

“ _Mycroft_  - …”

Mycroft knew that tone. He detached from Greg’s cock, his pupils blown and his face flushed, hair tousled into a mess. He gazed up from the floor, panting a little, unsure why they were stopping.

“Up,” Lestrade bit out.

Obediently, Mycroft got up. Lestrade’s face had set hard; his black eyes were ablaze.

With a single push he knocked Mycroft backwards into the chair. The chair skidded slightly across the rug, then hit the back wall with a thump. Mycroft had only a split second’s view of a wild-eyed, furious Inspector Lestrade before the man had descended on him, kissing him so roughly it almost hurt, pushing him hard against the back of the chair and forcing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. It took the entirety of Mycroft’s self-control not to come on the spot. He groaned with desperation and arched against Lestrade, hissing, reaching eagerly to drag the man somehow even closer - then he found his arms being grabbed, and hauled backwards. Mycroft struggled, panting into Greg’s mouth.

Then came the hoop of cold steel, lashed quickly around his right wrist - and a click.

The realisation sent Mycroft’s heartbeat into the stratosphere. He gasped, his every nerve searing, as without mercy Greg grabbed for his other wrist, forced it into the cuff and clicked it shut, locking Mycroft’s wrists into place behind the chair. Mycroft pulled at the cuffs, panting - the steel held. He could barely move. Chained into place, his arms immobilised, he could only moan and accept Greg’s tongue in his panting mouth as Greg dragged open his waistcoat, wrenched off his tie and almost tore the buttons from his shirt - opening him up, Mycroft thought - having him. Finding his skin. As Greg finally pushed open the shirt, he roughly let go of Mycroft’s mouth and descended upon his chest instead, littering the pale skin in kisses and bites and lashes of his tongue, working his way downwards, dropping to his knees on the floor.

“Greg…” Mycroft groaned. Greg was pulling off his shoes, throwing them across the office. “ _Greg_  - …”

“You need to stay quiet,” Greg murmured, tugging off his socks and then grappling for the buttons of his trousers. Mycroft screwed his eyes tight shut, panting so hard that his bare chest heaved. “Or all your posh club friends are gonna hear us.”

“You’ve -  _chained_  me to a  _chair_ ,” Mycroft managed, his heart on the brink of eruption, as Greg seized hold of his trousers and underwear at once, hauling both roughly downwards, “having invaded my office for pornographic roleplay, fucked my mouth on my knees, and now you expect me to stay  _quiet?”_

Greg smiled as he cast the clothing away across the room.

“It’s your club,” he said from between Mycroft's knees with a shrug. “ _I_  don’t care what they think. If you want to scream, gorgeous, I’ll make you scream…”

He climbed into the chair with Mycroft, took his face in his hands and raked his husband’s mouth with his tongue until Mycroft could barely breathe, fighting against the cuffs and his own desperate need to cry out. Greg Holmes-Lestrade was a bastard - and Mycroft adored him with every breath of his soul. Greg was fully-clothed, his trousers loosened but with even his damn coat still on, while Mycroft was now nearly naked and handcuffed to a chair.

As the kiss came apart, both of them panting, Mycroft gasped against his husband’s wicked mouth.

“This is -  _hideously_  unwise,” he managed. “Half of Westminster sit in utter silence feet away through that wall. You cannot do this to me.”

“Tell me to stop, then.”

“Sweet God,” Mycroft groaned under his breath, flushing. “Please - …  _don’t_  stop. Just…”

“Are you telling me you’re prepared to come quietly?” Greg enquired, his eyes flashing.

Mycroft gazed at him in despair. “Why did I marry you?”

“Because I do things like this,” Greg said, dark-eyed and gorgeous and perfect. “And you know you need it. You’ve started working past nine again. Stop it. You _promised_ me.”

“Japan,” Mycroft said, twisting a little against the smooth black leather of his chair, “are not prepared to sign the agreement without - ”

“ _Delegate_ , then,” Greg interrupted. “Prioritise. I don’t care. Just come home to me by nine - you  _promised_  - or I’ll have to come and deal with you here. I’ll do this every night if I have to.”

He stroked his mouth across Mycroft’s lips, slowly. Mycroft responded, his heart fluttering, overwhelmed by the sudden gentleness of the kiss.

“I love you, gorgeous,” Greg murmured.

“I love you too,” Mycroft breathed, his heart opening wide. He pulled against the cuffs, longing to touch Greg - to hold him - to throw him over the desk and reassert his priorities at once. “Greg, this - arrangement prohibits a number of possibilities…”

“You getting your hands on me, you mean? Yeah. That’s the point. Permits me a few things, though…” Greg reached into the pocket of his coat. As he withdrew lubricant, Mycroft almost expired on the spot. “How quietly can you come?”

Mycroft stared at him, wild-eyed. “You know I can’t,” he breathed. “ _Please_ , Greg. My career - ”

Greg smiled, slowly. “Don’t worry, gorgeous… you married a creative man.”

He bent down, retrieving something from the rug.

Mycroft realised it was his own tie.

“What…?” Mycroft managed, before Greg looped it gently around the back of his head. Realisation dawned. “ _Greg_ ,” he warned, his voice hardening. “Greg, if you  _dare_  - ”

“Come home before nine,” Greg murmured. He drew the tie across Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft bit down on the damn thing, panting, wrenching at his cuffs as Greg knotted it gently behind his head. “You belong to me,” Greg breathed in his ear, with a quick flash of tongue. Mycroft twitched, his groan muffled into his tie. “Not to this place. It’s only borrowing you. It can’t make you feel what I can.”

He caught Mycroft’s earlobe gently with his teeth. Mycroft breathed in, hard.

“Let me remind you,” Greg whispered, soft.

He began to kiss his way down Mycroft’s chest.

As Greg spread his thighs, coaxing them to part with one over each arm of the chair, Mycroft balled his hands into fists. He started reciting to himself all the monarchs of England since the House of Wessex. He reached Aethelred the Unready on the first firm stripe of Greg’s tongue, then rather skipped a few. By the Conqueror, Greg’s tongue was squirming its way inside him and making him wrench at his tie with his teeth, his urgent moans muffled into the patterned silk. As he hit the Plantagenets, lubricant was introduced to the situation - then gentle fingers, stretching, opening him up. Mycroft gave up halfway through the War of the Roses. There was no more history, no more thought - only pleasure - only slickness and softness, and firmness, and pushing, and he bore down in desperation around his husband’s fingers, no longer able to remember his own name let alone who came after Edward IV. He felt open. He felt empty. He needed to be filled - more than fingers, more than tongue, more than the delicious slick of lubricant and saliva and the flicker of Greg’s tongue. Mycroft ripped into his tie, heaving, pleading with his husband for more in wordless and muffled moans as three fingers fucked him to despair -  _harder_ , he wanted to beg -  _faster_  -  _please, darling, fuck me_  - it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Then Greg was rising from his knees, pushing his sleeve across his mouth, and climbing up into the chair.

He reached down within his open trousers, gathering his rigid cock in one hand. Mycroft realised he wasn’t going to remove a stitch of fabric, and it shredded the last of his self-control to pieces. He arched against Greg in desperation, panting through his teeth as his husband nuzzled tenderly into his throat, guided the head of his prick into place, and in a single slick stroke drove himself inside Mycroft to the root.

Mycroft’s entire body flamed with it - too big, too full, too good. He heaved with it, straining at his bonds, and as Greg began to fuck him fast and hard, he groaned into the tie as if he were dying. The rough, rhythmic rasp of fabric over his naked skin made him want to scream. The chair shook beneath them. Each deep, hard thrust sent crashing waves of pleasure rushing through his body, burning him up, igniting him, ripping through him, and he dragged his thighs around Greg in desperation - the only bit of his body he could move.

Greg snarled his approval in Mycroft’s ear. He bit at Mycroft’s earlobe, soothed it with his tongue and whispered,

“Good, gorgeous?”

Mycroft whimpered into the tie.

“Taken,” Greg breathed, pushing their foreheads together. “Fucked and bound. Fucked in your chair. By the husband who loves you.”

Mycroft tightened his thighs, gazing with desperation into Greg’s face - pleading with him with only his eyes.

“You want to come?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded urgently, panting, his head falling back against the chair and his expression scrunching around the tie. Greg’s cock was somehow fucking him in places it couldn’t possibly reach - slamming into him, echoing through him, fucking him so deep he had become a single ringing note of pleasure. There was nothing but this - no career, no politics, nothing. Just Greg; Greg, and the pleasure.

“You promise you’re going to stop working late?”

Again Mycroft nodded, more urgently than ever. He tightened his legs around Greg hard.

“I love you too,” his husband breathed. He worked a hand between them, found Mycroft’s desperate prick and began to tug him on each stroke, pulling at him in rhythm. “Come all over me, love… come like you mean it.”

The chain of the handcuffs snapped taut. Mycroft threw his head back, and with his last scrap of thought bit down into the tie, muffling the howls that began to tear their way free of his throat. As he came, blown apart by soaring, streaming white pleasure and scattered away across the world, he felt Greg bite down into his shoulder and drive as deep inside Mycroft’s body as he could go - pinning him there, holding him still - panting out his climax, gasping it into Mycroft. They shuddered together, heaving. The pounding went on and on and on.

Finally the rush began to subside. In the quiet that welled up in its wake, Mycroft found himself limp from throat to ankle. He felt  _fucked_  - utterly fucked. He’d never felt so fucked in his life. Greg stirred against him, shivered, and reached up to unknot the tie. Mycroft suspected his husband could have scooped him up and poured him into a bowl.

“You okay?” Greg whispered, as the tie slid free.

Mycroft worked his untethered mouth for a moment, breathing deeply as he loosened out his tongue.

“ _That’s_  why I married you,” he managed, hoarse.

Greg laughed, soft and breathless. “Don’t forget again,” he husked, brushing his mouth over Mycroft’s. He helped himself to a long and lingering kiss. Mycroft responded weakly, helplessly, too drained to move.

“You came quietly after all,” Greg murmured, as they parted.

“You are  _filthy_ ,” Mycroft gasped, gazing into his face. “Are you aware of that? Your capacity for smut will never cease to amaze me.  _Roleplay?”_

Greg grinned from ear-to-ear, flushed, eyes dark.

“Knew you wouldn’t just talk to me,” he said, softly. “I had to loosen you up first. If I’d just told you over breakfast… just asked you to come home when you’d promised… you’d have given me some crap about global politics. Some crap about how I wouldn’t understand.”

Mycroft’s chest ached. His husband smiled a little, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

“I didn’t want to talk to the politician,” he said. “Wanted to talk to my husband.”

Mycroft’s heart drew in a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I -  _should_  come home. I should delegate… should let go of my need to control it all. Even nine o'clock is too late - far too late. I should be home with you by seven, Greg… every night. Without exception.”

A little sadness touched Greg’s eyes.

“If I thought you could keep that promise,” he said, “maybe I’d ask you to make it. And I’d be the happiest man in the world.”

Mycroft’s breath shallowed. He hated the look on Greg’s face. He resolved at once that he would never see it again - would never make Greg come to retrieve him from this place again. They shouldn’t have to resort to roleplay to solve this. They’d been married for six years; Greg deserved more than a couple of hours of his husband every day.

“If the country is relying,” Mycroft decided, “on one man’s ability to work until nine every night, it doesn’t deserve to keep going. May it fall.”

Greg smiled quietly. His eyes brightened a little.

“Something for you to think about,” he murmured. He eased up from Mycroft, glancing down with a wince at the mess now between them. “God - we have to walk out of here like this… is there a back door?”

“Mm. You can smuggle me out of it… preserve my reputation.”

Greg grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

“What would you have done if I had agreed to come quietly?” Mycroft asked, out of interest, as Greg stood unsteadily from the chair and fished a small steel key out of his pocket.

“Escorted you out,” Greg said, “in cuffs. Put you in the car. Driven you home and fucked the sense back into you.”

Mycroft smiled, resting his head back against the chair.

“I see this scenario was only ever going to end one way,” he murmured, stretching out his aching legs.

Greg knelt beside the chair, and began to attend to the handcuffs.

“Of course it was,” he said. “Because I needed to remind you.”

He leant down, kissing Mycroft’s wedding ring.

“You might be Mycroft Holmes… but you’re Mycroft Holmes- _Lestrade_.” The cuffs unlocked with a click. “That means you belong to me. No matter how often you forget.”


End file.
